


The Fox Waits Quiet At The Coop

by ElectraRhodes



Series: Tristahad Stories [1]
Category: Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Tristahad - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-27 00:20:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10797807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElectraRhodes/pseuds/ElectraRhodes
Summary: Every knight of the Round Table knows each skirmish might be his last. And still they wake and face each day with courage and a keen blade. And the love of their brothers in arms.





	The Fox Waits Quiet At The Coop

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissDisoriental](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDisoriental/gifts).



> Gifted to MissDisoriental in an unprovoked gesture of British kagoules and peculiar place names.

Everyone lined up. It was what you did. When a knight died in battle. You didn't have to line up in a particular order. You just joined it when you saw it form. When you reached the head of the queue you bent down and spoke to your fallen brother. Maybe touched your lips to his forehead. Placed your hand over his. Honoured him.

They had spoken of this several times. In the dark. When everyone else was asleep and they found themselves, with each other. What they might do if one of them went and the other remained. Neither of them quite believed in the stories of the old gods. Or the new. But if there was a way, they had both sworn to find the other somehow. Some time. In the next life.

They all knew that every battle might be their last. Tristan was more resigned than Galahad. And each time there was a skirmish, or an ambush, or a rout they both knew what was at stake. But so far they'd been lucky. By all the gods, they seemed blessed. 

Throughout their time together they had been careful and discreet. Despite Galahad being loud and brash and Tristan being dour and reflective they had found a way to fit. Their brothers thought them close. After all, most knights have someone they gravitate to in training, in battle, or at rest taking their fill of mead or ale. That they sometimes disappeared together or that Arthur sent them on lonesome missions didn't disturb the ebb and flow of the round table.

Galahad had been concerned that others might know. Tristan had been worried about Galahad's worry. Knowing that a worried Galahad alone might draw attention, where a small smile and a raised eyebrow was an effective response to a leering tease.

Just once in a while Gawain would poke at one of them, or Lancelot would, or Bors. But mostly they were restrained enough just to smile and if it were Tristan offer a slice of apple as a reply, and if it were Galahad offer a choice between a game of knucklebones or an arm wrestle. And now after years of travel and war fare and the endless backwards and forwards of Rome their brothers left them mostly alone.

In the line then. Waiting. Moving up one person at a time. That soft stroke, that tearful kiss, those quiet heartfelt words. When Galahad reached the head of the queue he bent, and kissed, and whispered, and gently clasped a hand. He felt the tears rise and did nothing to stop them spill.

When he stood he stepped away, and let himself be pulled into a close embrace, not caring what anyone else might think. He clutched at the rough fabric of the tunic, stumbling as he was half carried and half dragged into his tent. Once there in the cloaked dark he pulled in air over choked sobs, not letting go.

Slowly his breathing evened out, he wiped his eyes on his sleeve, and steadied himself. Stepping away he shook his head, before dropping onto the sheepskins that made his bed. Shakily he reached out a hand to pull his lover down beside him, taking comfort in his sombre presence, and in his arms. Tristan rubbed a hand through Galahad's hair. Kissed him, whispered into his curls. 'Not this time, my love. Not this time.'

**Author's Note:**

> There's a beautiful painting on Tumblr by Camille Flying Rotten for the 2017 Tristahad festival, it depicts Galahad saying farewell to Tristan. To date I've left the pairing alone, it makes me too sad. (I know I'm not consistent but there we are. Bev yes, Tristhad no). But that picture has stayed with me. So this is set some time before that final battle against the saxons. 
> 
>  
> 
> And hell's teeth I'm an archaeologist and that film makes me want to bang my head on hard things, but, it's fic, and I mostly know the difference between fic and fact. (Wails looooong and loud.)


End file.
